The Long Prophesied Return
by Reincarnated Poet
Summary: "When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east," she said sadly. "When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before." -Daenerys Targaryen


A Long Prophesied Return

" _When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east," she said sadly. "When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When my womb quickens again, and I bear a living child. Then you will return, my sun-and-stars, and not before." -Daenerys Targaryen_

Daenerys stood on the battlefield, blood and sweat pouring off of her in sheets as she brought her arm up to take the blow of a sword across her own outstretched blade. It was an awkward thing in her hand, but in the last day, it had grown to be as close a friend as any.

The war for King's Landing had been a long one. The first volley of arrows had fallen upon the earth as the sun had risen in the east the day prior. They had played at war from their boats and their walls for hours until something had caught in the Landing, and fire had burned them out of their holes.

The Usurper's men had poured out of her homeland and met the Unsullied on the beaches. It was a far more difficult battle than she had anticipated, but then again, she hadn't planned on her dragons leaving her, soaring far away over the horizon. It had been a long hell through the night, and still the sun had not risen.

She caught another blow off of her blade and spun, trying to bring the blade up on the flesh of the man's arm. An Unsullied was at her side in an instant, ending the treat's life and nodding to her with a quiet mutter of her name. She prayed for sunrise at least so that she could see her enemy clearly, gauge their losses and who was winning.

"The sun!" someone screamed, and Daenerys glanced up and eastward. The sky was as dark and lightless in that direction as it had ever been. Yet there was a rising glow to the world. Shadow cast out in front of her, she froze briefly. The sun rose behind her, a roaring ball of flame.

There, alone the horizon to the west, the sun rose and rose and rose. Except, as it neared, it was clear that it was dragon fire. Her warriors shouted out their battle cry as the shining flame swept the city. The Usurper's men turned and ran, and as the sun rose in the west, Daenerys Stormborne took back the Iron Throne.

-A Long Prophesied Return-

"My lady, we must act on these warnings. Watching all of Westeros freeze while you sit in dragon fire was not your plan when you took the Iron Throne," Varys said from where he stood at her feet. She found the Iron Throne uncomfortable, but she found the weight of the crown moreso.

It had been three weeks now that the reports of the White Walkers had come down from the North. For the most part, they had kept to themselves. There had been a brief discussion of war with the bastard spawn of some Northerner, but he and his had been drawn into a battle with the White Walkers and their endless winter.

"Why should I send my men to fight a battle that is not their own?" she asked, shifting forward on the throne. "Why should our hard earned freedom be threatened by moving North?"

"Because, my lady, should you fail to heed this warning, you may very well find that you cannot defend from an empty belly or frozen limbs. You are a Summer Child, and while your youth is to be commended and guarded jealously, the short memory of one so young is dangerous."

"Show me sign that these White Walkers exist, that your endless winter is coming, and I will march North with my dragons and burn them into the ground. Until that time, I won't risk my people for those that would not support me."

"Kahleesi," Daario said softly. She glanced toward him, where he sat reclined on the stairs beside her. His normal ease had gone, and he was sat upright now, none of the laziness that seemed to permeate his being. "With all respect, the woman I followed across the water would not hide behind walls while the very ocean she sailed across froze."

"The oceans freeze?" she asked. Something nagged at the back of her mind.

"Frozen dry, my lady," Varys said. He gave a sad little shake of his head. How that head shake differed from his fond exasperation head shake was beyond her.

"Convene my council," she said. She stood, resisted the urge to rub at her backside, and walked down the steps.

The council, as it was, was little more than those that had been beside her on the long trip across the ocean. Tyrion and Daario sat there. Greyworm had never taken a different name, but there he sat. Varys and Missandei where with her. The small council room was cold, and she gestured toward the brazier.

Hours later, even with the fire lit, there was little warmth in the room. Mostly, she decided, it was due to the prospect of war. They marched out three days later, and Daenerys stared in slack jawed awe at the frozen power of the ocean. The army marched over it, bypassing the rough terrain that lead them through the Riverlands and into the North.

There would be war before the week was out, and she marched with something distance pecking at the back of her mind. It wasn't until they were united with the army in the North through a slap-dash forced hand-fasting and more blood than either side had tended to lose that she realized why.

A great horn sounded across the land, echoing and pounding a rhythm deep against her breastbone. Even her children, the greatest dragons to fly since before her grandfather's time, reeled away in fear as the ground beneath them vibrated in riotous quakes.

The mountains to the west gave one great, shattering shake and careened down to the earth. The dust blew in the wind, carried as far as their battlefield. There was little time to dwell on the horn or the destructive power it wrought. It was a long several hours only ended by the return of her dragons, enraged and spitting fire enough to melt even the heart of the North.

-A Long Prophesied Return-

Daenerys did not hate her husband. Far from it, in truth. He was a stern faced man, though handsome enough, with pouting lips that she heard the serving girls whisper about when they thought no one could hear.

He had had a woman before, a Wildling of the North, and his heart was so lost to her that even six months after their handfasting and return to King's Landing, he hadn't insisted upon sharing a marriage bed.

They shared the weight of the crown, and his company at her dinner table and in the small hours of the morning when neither of them could sleep was a solid comfort. It was Varys who insisted, in the end. The council had agreed, and there had been no amount of argument that could be had to keep them from insisting they try to make an heir.

He was gentle with her and far more skilled than she would have thought a man of the North could be. Generous and caring and the exact opposite of anything she had experienced in the past, and she found herself enjoying it far more than she had planned. When Varys had first insisted, she had planned on simply taking it like the Dorthaki bitches. It was several pleasurable nights before the council had agreed that they could wait and see if anything quickened.

Daenerys planned on enjoying it when her barren womb again demanded they try to make an heir. It was nearly three months later when she first felt the stirring low in her belly.

-A Long Prophesied Return-

Jon paced outside of the birthing room, sweat beading along his brow at the thick summer heat. At least, when pressed, he would say that was why he sweat so. It could not be fear or anticipation, the weight of having a son.

He had never hoped to father children, not wanting to make bastards of his own, and the thought of fathering princes or princesses was as far removed from his mind of three years ago as the idea that his blood was equal parts Stark and Targaryen.

A scream split the air, and Jon froze, turning toward the doors and the short, stalwart woman that stood between him and the wood. She shook her head grimly, just as she had done each time he'd turned toward her in the last few hours-too many hours, surely.

"This is a woman's work," she said simply. "It is more painful than anything you have ever known, my lord." She was not smug in her declaration, and Jon did not think to argue. Daenerys might have been a wife of necessity, but she was a strong wife, a good wife, one that-had his heart not belonged to a woman long dead-he would have gladly taken with enthusiasm and thanked his luck.

As it was, she was a comfort to the pain of his loss and a reason to get up in the mornings. No man worth his cock would question that laying with her, creating their child, had been a pleasure, but it was no more pleasurable than what he imagined laying with any whore would be. Daenerys had confessed much the same, and they both had sat in quiet mournful silence over their own losses for days.

Another cry, this one high pitched and ringing, echoed out through the door, and Jon fell to his knees. That was his child's voice, he knew in an instant. His. It was a child that would want for nothing, that would learn the weight of honor and the ways his father-the one that had raised him-had taught.

"My lord," the woman said, kneeling down in front of him. He blinked up at her owlishly, unsure of when she had moved. "A daughter my lord, and healthy." She hesitated as if unsure of what to say next. "I am sorry, my lord. I am sure sons will follow."

"Gods…" he murmured, overcome with joy and endless possibility. A daughter. One that would learn to embroider with her Aunt Sansa but run until her hem was deep in mud with her Aunt Arya. A daughter who would secretly ask him to teach her to ride a horse all while sitting at her mother's side.

"My lord?"

"She is healthy?" he asked. The woman nodded. "And my wife?" Another nod. He settled back onto his heels and sighed. "Then let everyone know we are to celebrate tonight."

Hours later, he held his daughter and lay beside his wife, her head pillowed against his shoulder. They would raise a good daughter, and in time, she could take the throne just as her mother had.

-A Long Prophesied Return-

The sound of horse hooves on cobblestone was not unfamiliar, but it was out of place in the Great Hall. Daenerys held her daughter, happily smiling down at her face as she suckled on her fingertip. Jon sat beside her on the pillowed floor covering they'd had brought in after she realized exactly how uncomfortable the throne could be while pregnant.

She tore her eyes away as the sound grew louder and echoing complaints and shouts of the guards rang out. In a moment, Jon was in front of her as a large black destrier came bursting through the doors. She stared, blind-eyed for a half second as the sound of Longclaw coming from its sheath sounded.

The man on the back of the horse was a ghost, a wraith come to haunt her. She felt her bones grow brittle, the heart of her fade away. He stared at her through kohl smeared eyes as he stalked closer. Jon met him halfway, and his blade rang against the short, curved blade the ghost pulled from his hip. They clashed time and time again, but eventually, Jon was sent sprawling back by sheer force.

"M'lady," Missandei whispered at her elbow, pulling her to her feet and taking the child. Panic rose in her belly. The wraith would not take her child, no matter who's face it wore.

She met him half the distance still between them, her whip in hand from where it had lay hanging from one of the swords of the throne.

"You will not take what is mine, ghost-kahl," she said, the words coming out in Dothraki even after all of her time away.

"Moon of my life," he whispered. The words had not finished leaving his mouth before she was lashing out with the whip. It caught him against the cheek, and she watched as blood welled up in the cut, running down the angle of his jaw and the side of his neck. He only stood, staring at her for a long moment.

In that time, Jon had come to her side, and his dark eyes slid over him. Daenerys was too shocked by that blood, the way it rolled down his skin, by the breath in him, the rate increasing with his anger.

"My sun and stars?" she asked, taking a step around Jon's sword arm. His dark eyes flickered back over to her, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in the barest of smiles that he only let when he was pleased.

"I promised my kahleesi a throne. This is your iron chair?" he gestured toward it briefly before turning toward Jon. "Your new Kahl is small." She could not help the laughter that bubbled up past her lips, that shook her shoulders and wet her eyes.

"Leave us, Jon?" she asked, turning toward him with still wet eyes. He considered her a long moment, his face drawn down in that scowl of his that meant he was more unhappy than normal. "This is my Igritte, Jon."

In a moment, he was staring, wide eyed, at Drogo where he stood. His blade found its scabbard quickly, and he nodded before disappearing out the rear of the Great Hall.

"I went to the Dosh Kahleen," he said, the shadow of something sly on his face. "You were not there."

"It was not my place," she said, stepping toward him until she could run her fingertips along the scar on the left side of his chest.

"My Kahleesi, the great Kahl killer." She felt her cheeks flush at his stare, openly proud of her rage and her strength. "I will kill your new Kahl." He went to step past her, but she side stepped, hands out on his biceps to stop him.

"He is my friend," she said, stumbling over the Dothraki terms, trying to find one close enough for friend. Drogo stopped, mouth screwed up in a sneer, but he nodded once. His ire gave way to something else as his hands found her hips and he lifted her, as if she weighed nothing, and took her there, against her iron chair.

-A Long Prophesied Return-

Jon smiled down at his daughter as she chased butterflies through the garden. It had been days since he had seen her so happy, as the storms had rolled in off of the sea. She'd spent that time indoors, and while she loved most of her play, she most enjoyed the time they chased each other through the garden.

Jon stalked around the corner, listening to the high pitched laughter of his daughter as she tore down a side path. He rounded another corner and laughed at the sight of her, seated on Drogo's shoulders, arms crossed in victory and a smug smirk in place that was more Dothraki than anything else.

"Cheater," he said, though there was laughter in his heart. Drogo's face remained impassive for several long minutes before thick, deft fingers came up and tickled her sides. A peal of laughter sounded, and Jon held his breath as she fell from his shoulders only to grab his elbow, right herself, and take off running.

They found her several long minutes later, hiding behind her mother's skirts. Jon found himself not a little displeased when Drogo went to them, swept Daenerys into a kiss, and sent their daughter off shouting about sickliness.

There had been several long conversations, some which had ended in shouts and others blood, but they'd settled in the last five years. Tyrion had understood the most, as Tyrion had a wont to do. Jon was just happy to have a family-any family-even one that meant his wife had an open lover. Drogo had been quick enough to comply when he realized that Jon and Daenerys had little more feelings for each other than siblings.

The biggest hurdle of all things, which had not been as much of a shock as it ought to have been, was from Sansa, who refused to speak to him until he'd taken his wife back. He was content to let her spudder from Winterfell in the North.

AN: I don't know why this gripped me, but I saw the quote on the GoT Tumblr and sort of thought...well, challenge fucking accepted and thus this was born. Let me know what you thought!


End file.
